I visit the place after decades. An invisible presence takes me down the zigzaggy route in drowsy quiet. A certain bend motions me to pause. I see a path branching off and stretching away to a blurring point.
The clock turns back in an instant.
I remember it leads to a temple where she and I once tied a piece of cloth carrying our names around the trunk of a wish-fulfilling tree. I feel the stirring in memory’s dying roots.
Does it still exist?
There’re more paper tags than leaves on the tree, hanging from its branches like torn kites.
The clock turns back in an instant.
I remember it leads to a temple where she and I once tied a piece of cloth carrying our names around the trunk of a wish-fulfilling tree. I feel the stirring in memory’s dying roots.
Does it still exist?
There’re more paper tags than leaves on the tree, hanging from its branches like torn kites.
